


With a Glacier's Patience

by agent_orange



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Coda, Episode Tag, Hand Jobs, M/M, Minor Character Death, kiss and make up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:59:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2156559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're finally back on the same page, but if Dean needs space, Sam will let him have it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With a Glacier's Patience

Sam thinks they deserve a few days' break, and Dean doesn't argue, but he doesn't say anything, either. They call Bobby to let him know they're alright (well, as alright as they can be). He doesn't ask about Adam, but Sam can hear him flipping through pages of a book, which Sam guesses doesn't have the answers.

He's sore all over; while Dean's driving isn't doing anything to help that fact, Sam wants to get to Bobby's, or a motel, _wherever_ , just as fast as Dean does. He thinks he may have cracked a rib, but Dean can fix that up, and there'll be huge bruises either way.

*

The motel clerk cocks an eyebrow at them. "Lovers' spat?"

Sam flushes, opens and closes his mouth. "I—" Even though they're fucking, looking like they are, and being called out on it, still embarrasses him.

"He gets jealous," Dean says, tone half-joking, half-sarcastic. "Doesn't like when I flirt. Two queens."

Getting a room with separate beds is an old habit, one that Dean pulls out when he's angry or they're in the Bible Belt, but Sam didn't think he'd use it tonight. Not after they finally got back on the same page. Maybe he's too tired to do anything, and this is his way of communicating that to Sam. If Dean needs space tonight, though, Sam will let him have it, as long as he knows where Dean is, and that it's in their motel room.

The taste of blood is heavy in his mouth, metallic and bitter. He wants a beer to get rid of it, but settles for tap water instead. There's more of it than he thought, and he spits blood into the sink, hoping he won't have to again.

He has a brief moment of panic when Dean goes back out to the car for the med kit, worries that Dean will drive off in a flurry of squealing tires and skid marks, and Sam will have to find him all over again, but he comes back, a bag of salt in his free hand.

When Dean's patching him up, Sam always feels more naked than he does when he's _actually_ naked, though he's only down two layers. Probably has something to do with being injured and vulnerable while Dean has higher ground. He wraps Sam up with athletic tape, hands awkward and impersonal on Sam's skin. "That too tight?" he asks.

"No," Sam answers. He can't breathe as deeply, but it's not a big deal. "Cut the shit, Dean."

"I don't—"

"Don't give me that 'I don't know what you're talking about' crap," Sam says, rising to face Dean. "Separate beds again? I thought we were cool."

"I'm glad, really. Don't get me wrong."

"So what's the problem?" Sam's prodding, and he knows it, but Dean won't open up unless he does.

"Adam's dead or...Michael's tux for the prom because of us. You know as well as I do: people who get close to us get hurt." The bed squeaks when he sits down, slumping heavily on it.

"You tried to stop him. We both did. We'll go back tomorrow, see if there's anything we can do, but can we please just enjoy the fact that we killed Zachariah? That has to be a point for us, right?"

"Fine," Dean agrees, and turn on the TV, flipping through channels until some Skinemax flick shows up. "Let's just forget about it, then."

"Really?"

"What?" Dean sounds frustrated, pissed that Sam's interrupting his movie.

"I'm _right here_ , Dean," Sam says.

Dean doesn't take his eyes off the screen, but responds, "So? Last time I checked, you liked girls." He licks his lips, pink and wet, and says, "Oh, yeah, like that." His hand drifts to the crotch of his jeans, settling there, but not rubbing. Yet.

Sam grabs the remote, shuts off the TV, and sits down next to Dean. "You don't need that," he says, hand inching up Dean's thigh to toy with his zipper. "Come on."

Dean's never been good at saying no to Sam, and when there's a hand that close to his dick, he has a hard time refusing anyone. "I was watching that." The mock-annoyance isn't convincing, though, and his hips buck up, trying for more pressure.

Back in the holding room, when Dean was talking to Zachariah, all Sam could think about was that their last time would actually be their _last_ time. If Dean knew, he'd call Sam a gigantic girl, and ask if he needed to "take a minute for himself" or something. Now, though, he's just happy Dean's next to him; he tilts Dean's jaw for a better angle to kiss him, slipping his tongue between Dean's slick lips.

Warm and safe and familiar, they jostle for position, and since Sam's injured, Dean ends up on top, thigh wedged between Sam's own. Sam's button-down is already off, but Dean removes Sam's thin undershirt before starting on his own clothes, their lips separating for a brief moment.

"You okay?" Dean asks. "With your..." he gestures to Sam's ribs. "Don't want you to—"

"It's fine," Sam insists. He won't be able to do much in the way of actual _fucking_ , but his hands still work fine. "Suck me?" he asks. "Please?"

"Yeah," Dean says, practically tearing Sam's jeans, boxers and boots off. In Sam's opinion, it still takes much too long, but then Dean's mouth is on his stomach, sucking a mark onto the skin.

He loves the way Dean looks when he's on his knees, eyes gone dark with lust, lips ready. It turns Sam on almost as much as the act itself— _almost_ , because when Dean opens to take the head of Sam's cock in his mouth, Sam can't think at all; can barely breathe when Dean slides his mouth all the way down and cups Sam's balls. " _Fuck_ ," he grunts. Dean's mouth is hot and wet around him, and perfect. He holds Sam's hips down, making all these obscene noises as he sucks.

Sam buries his hand in Dean's hair—it's either that or thrust up so hard he risks breaking Dean's nose—and the other in the worn-out bedcovers. His balls feel heavy and tight; pleasure's coiling, white-hot, in his belly, and he wants to draw this out as long as he can, but _fuck_ , Dean's _mouth_.

He comes with a groan he doesn't bother to— _can't_ —muffle, Dean's throat working around him. He feels weightless, like he's tumbling through space.

When Sam's done, Dean pulls off with a wet _pop_ , lips shiny with Sam's come; if Sam weren't so tired, he'd be getting hard again. "C'mere," he says, reaching for Dean. Or, more accurately, shoving Dean's jeans and boxers down and reaching for his dick.

" _Shit_ ," Dean says, which makes Sam close his hand tighter around him, stroke faster. Rough, long motions; firm grip; twist at the end of the upstroke—just the way Dean likes it, and he comes in hot spurts all over Sam's hand and his own stomach.

They fall asleep like that, sticky and sweaty, but sated. They'll have to wash the sheets in the tub tomorrow.

*

When Sam wakes up, Dean's sitting on the overstuffed plaid couch. There's coffee and bagels on the table, rich smells of each making Sam's mouth water.

"Do you know how long it took me to get unstuck from you?" Dean gripes. "We're never doing that again."

"Right." Sam walks over to his long-discarded jeans, picking them up. "I was keeping this for you," Sam says, pulling the amulet from his pocket and offering it to Dean. "Couldn't let you just throw it away."

"You're such a girl," he replies, but fastens it around his neck. He looks whole again.


End file.
